by C. J. Valles
“College before the wedding?” I whisper.
Ever nods, smiling.
“Forever,” I agree.
Standing up, he sweeps me into his arms and kisses me until I blush. By the time he sets me down, he’s grinning widely. And suddenly I know what Alex meant when he said his last act was a wedding present to Ever. With Alex gone forever, Ever is and always will be the only one in this universe who has my heart.
“Now for your birthday present,” Ever says playfully.
My mom and I look at each other before following him to the front door. He opens it, and we step outside, gawking at the shiny red vehicle sitting at the curb.
“It’s fully electric and will charge on solar power from the house,” Ever says, handing me the key. In my ear, he whispers, “Because you can’t power it yourself … yet.”
So, instead of dying to save this world, I study for finals. And to my eternal relief, “Richard” gets a job offer from a hospital on the East Coast. Then, only days later, my mom makes plans to visit her college sweetheart, James.
Right before graduation, I get an e-mail from my dad. He can’t make it to the ceremony, so he’s sending a check. A couple of years ago, I would have been hurt and upset, but after all that’s happened, I accept it. It briefly crossed my mind to tell him about Ever and the proposal, but I decide not to.
When graduation day comes, it doesn’t feel as momentous as I thought it would, and instead of going to a graduation party afterward, I buy a plane ticket to France. Ever drives me to the airport, not questioning why I need to go—although he did offer to transport me there instantaneously. Deep down, though, I know this is a trip I have to make by myself.
As soon as I walk into Bordeaux–Mérignac Airport, I say her name, because on my own, I know I’ll never find the chateau on the hillside.
“Aimee.”
“Hi, Wren!”
I look down, and Aimee takes my hand. A second later we’re standing in Madame Rousseau’s kitchen, the familiar smells making my eyes sting with tears. Hearing the door open, I turn and watch as Madame Rousseau comes in from the garden. She smiles warmly, like she’s been expecting me. And I’m already crying—because I have to tell her that the young man who has never failed to visit her will come no more.
“Do not cry, petite!” she scolds.
“But Alex … he’s not coming back.”
She takes my shoulders in her surprisingly strong grip.
“I know, ma fille. But you will see Alexandre again. Tôt ou tard.”
I smile through my tears. She’s wrong, but how can I say that when she looks so certain? I watch as she walks over to the oven, puts on an oven mitt, and removes a tarte tatin, which she sets on the counter. She takes down two plates from the cupboard and serves two slices, one of which she sets down in front of me. Then she takes a seat across from me, drinking a cup of tea and watching me eat like she did on that morning so long ago when Alex was still Iago, my enemy.
The next day, when I’m on a plane bound for Portland, I think about what Madame Rousseau said.
Tôt ou tard.
Sooner or later.
Epilogue: Promise
Sooner or Later, Somewhere in Space and Time
I groan as my alarm goes off. I’ve officially made it to high school graduation. In another couple of months, I’ll be a college freshman. And now I’ve officially won the bet with my mom.
Not a single date in my high school career. Never been kissed. Categorically invisible to guys.
Whenever I had grumbled about this to my mom, she had always said one of two things. Either, ‘Dating isn’t as important as your schoolwork’ or ‘You haven’t met the right person yet.’ To her first excuse, I had always countered with Freud’s quote about love and work being the cornerstones of happiness.
And really, I argued, why is work always given more legitimacy than love?
My response never failed to earn a smile from my mom, and she can’t argue because she’s getting remarried this summer to James—her college sweetheart and my soon-to-be stepdad—with me as her maid of honor. She has her happy ending and a job she likes.
I stumble groggily out of bed and walk over to the closet where my dress and cap and gown are hanging. Taking the dress and a pair of underwear and a bra from my dresser, I walk down the hall to the bathroom. As I stand in front of the mirror, I pull down my tank top and look down at the thin, almost invisible white scar over my heart.
It aches sometimes, but my mom says I’ve had it from the moment I was born, and the doctor said it’s nothing to worry about.
When I get downstairs, I decide to make blueberry muffins, and—more importantly, according to my mom—coffee. My mom’s taking the day off, and I’m a little sad that it will be one of our last girls-only mornings together in the house. I’ve just put the muffins in the oven when my mom comes into the kitchen in her robe, with big curlers in her hair. She pours herself a huge mug of coffee.
“Are you ready to be a high school graduate?”
I nod.
“Oh, and I won the bet,” I say with smug satisfaction.
My mom’s face goes blank.
“What bet?”
“I have remained, without exception, officially invisible to the male population.”
“And for that I am eternally grateful,” my mom laughs.
“Not even funny! Being the token single person at prom was not as cool as it looks in the movies.”
“Oh, honey. Everything will change when you get to college.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as I get out the butter and orange juice.
“Wren, boys haven’t noticed you, because you haven’t noticed them. Someday you’ll see him—the guy who stops you in your tracks—and you’ll just know.”
I smile at my mom’s rose-colored glasses.
“Yeah? Well, I still won the bet.”
Graduation passes by in a blur, and I’m just relieved I didn’t trip in my heels while walking across the stage. While James is getting the car and my mom is looking for a bathroom, I’m left standing alone in a sea of people. Hot and uncomfortable, I pull off my cap and gown and go over to sit on a brick wall at the edge of the school parking lot.
Feeling something shift in the air, I look up. And that’s when I see him. Wild copper hair. The brightest, deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s holding a single white rose, like out of some absurd dream. I blush when I realize that I’ve completely stopped breathing.
Then he starts walking in my direction, and I feel a silly jolt of adrenaline. Looking around, I try to decide who’s lucky enough to be here with him before reminding myself that he could be a complete and utter jerk. Because, if high school taught me anything, it’s that hot doesn’t automatically equal funny, nice, or interesting.
When he walks directly up to me, I’m sure he’s going to ask something prosaic, like ‘Where are the bathrooms?’ or ‘How do you get to the freeway?’ Instead, he smiles, which makes his face even more beautiful. Unbearably so. All I can do is gawk at him.
“Have we met before?” he asks in a deep yet infinitely lyrical voice that stupefies me.
I stare at him for a second before realizing he might actually expect an answer.
“I don’t think so,” I choke, shaking my head.
I definitely would have remembered, I add humorously to myself. Putting my hand on the warm bricks, I’m about to stand up when he offers his hand. Blushing, I reach out, feeling a bolt of electricity rush through me as he lifts me effortlessly until I’m standing less than a foot from him, staring up. I’m so overwhelmed by his presence that it takes a second before I realize that I can’t read his mind … which would be a normal thing for most people.
Ever since I first realized that I could look into someone’s eyes and tell what he or she is thinking about me, it’s always been weird, uncomfortable, or downright painful. Therefore, I probably shouldn’t want to know what’s going on in this guy’s head, but the way
he’s smiling at me kind of makes me want to sneak a peek—and I’m a little frustrated that I can’t.
“In that case, I’m Alex.” He pauses when I don’t say anything. “And you are?”
I’m tempted to say, “I’m really shocked … and confused,” but I don’t.
“I’m Wren.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Wren.”
The way he says this is odd, like it’s an inside joke I don’t understand.
“Did you come to see someone graduate?” I ask, staring into his eyes, searching for an errant thought.
“Yes, I did.”
“Oh.”
I nod meekly. He seems about college age, and I figure he came to see a younger sibling graduate. Or … he could be some nutter who wanders around at high school graduations.
“Alex?”
He nods, smiling, and I look down, suddenly aware that he’s still holding my hand.
“No offense, but are you a bible salesman or a cult member? I mean, why are you talking to me?”
When I look up again, his eyes are blazing with blue fire, and my breath catches as I see myself—with him. Not just with him. Kissing him.
Whoa. That wasn’t some fantasy in my head. That’s what was going on in his mind. I just went from seeing nothing in his head to seeing a lot more than I could have imagined on such short notice. Pulling away from his grip, I watch as he pulls out a ring that’s attached to a chain around his neck. He holds it out to me.
“Do you recognize this?” he asks with an intensity that scares me.
The ring is beautiful, a perfect, glowing, white rose. It doesn’t look like a diamond or an opal. Maybe a combination of the two? Frowning, I shake my head again.
“I-I don’t think so.”
“And what if I told you that I’ve been waiting a very long time to give it back to you?”
Suddenly, in my mind, I see him kneeling in the sand—with this ring in his hand. Gasping, I start to back away from him, feeling the tiny scar on my chest begin to ache.
“You’re either some crazy stalker, or …” I don’t know what.
He smiles again, like we’ve had this conversation before.
“Or we’ve known each other before, Wren.”
Without another word, he reaches out and takes my face in his hands, bending toward me. I have exactly one second to grasp the fact that some insanely gorgeous stranger—who just might be insane—is about to kiss me.
My eyes close, and a moment later his lips press gently to mine. It’s like a lightning bolt. Reaching up, I grab the front of his shirt with one hand as my other hand slips into his silky copper hair. Before I open my eyes again, I hear the sound of waves crashing and smell ocean air. Blinking, I look around. I know this place. I don’t know how, but a part of me knows it. Then I hear his words in my mind.
We will see each other again, I promise you.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“I am someone you said you could love in another lifetime … and you are someone I promised I would see again.”
A first look at …
Ever
An Alternate Point-of-View Companion to For Ever
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
- The Day Is Done, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
1: Dead Girl
This one could be the last.
The thought causes a startling thrill to course through me. No more waiting. The war will be that much closer to ending. I will watch the life drain out of her eyes and then never have to wonder again if this world will be taken from us.
I incline my head toward the windows of the classroom, listening to the steady hiss of precipitation that will taper off in the coming dawn, only to return again as it always does in this corner of the northwestern United States. The sound of the rain is soothing, softening the perpetual hum of billions of minds—only one of which I am searching for.
She is coming. I saw her. Long, straight, dark-chocolate hair, a pale complexion, and a grim, watchful expression that I have seen on weathered faces many times her age. I expect her to be young, but not too young. There is a common element to the countenances of younger humans that causes a pang somewhere deep in the recesses of my psyche. Recognizing it, I feel my lip curl in disgust. Guilt. Such a human foible.
I have been here, hunting these creatures too long. I live in their world and look as they do. I even act as they do—when absolutely necessary. My eyes shift toward the window, and my mind travels a short distance in time. I see it perfectly: a period when every human alive now had yet to exist.
1862
The boy—at twelve or thirteen—had been solemn and older than his years, much the same as the quarry I now await. His delicate features and serious eyes had been framed by dark hair. That morning, I had watched as he stepped from the rudimentary living quarters on his family’s land in what used to be called Oregon Country. The father had been dead nearly six months. Perhaps that was the grief I had seen in the boy’s eyes? The mother had been nursing an infant that I imagined would not make it through the winter.
Holding a wooden pail in his hand, the boy had paused and sniffed the air after his first step outside, as though he had known a predator was nigh. I had waited with the stillness that only one who has waited forever could achieve. In the low light, I could see everything, whilst he perceived no more than a hand’s length in front of his face as he took his unerring steps toward the small barn. I watched him with an acute awareness for how briefly these beings exist.
A glimmer of orange light crept across the horizon. These humans had been entrenched in their own battle, killing one another, while most of them knew not why. This particular region, though, settled by trappers and traders like this family, had been mostly untouched by the war that had raged to the east. I cared not. I had other preoccupations when I rose from inertia to blot out the latest rift—this human mind that could tip the balance and spell our downfall.
I had taken a mere step from the tree line. Then, in an instant, I had appeared in front of him. The pail had dropped to the sodden, mossy ground as his eyes took in my form in the low light: the inhumanly green eyes, the halo of blond hair glinting in the rising sun, and height uncommon to his time.
Michael, his thoughts had echoed.
Many during the past two human millennia had thought the same, and it was no surprise that his mind instantly traveled to his forefathers’ mythology—because this boy saw me differently than the vast majority of humans. It is why he had to die. I would have spared him if only I could have, but it would not have changed the unwavering conviction that his mind was a danger to us. I already had sensed the gathering, those on the other side grasping for a newborn vessel. Had I not acted, they would have lured him into infinite possession soon enough.
“Have you come to take my sister?” the boy had asked quietly.
“No, William. I’ve come for you.”
I had seen nothing wrong in allowing him to believe his faith’s rather elaborate construct. After all, giving this creature one last moment of solace in an otherwise miserable existence—the hardship of which I could read quite clearly in his eyes—had been a mercy I could spare.
“Allow her to grow old, then. Please. And grant me peace everlasting.”
“I shall.”
There had been tears in his eyes, yet he had seemed otherwise unafraid. I had known then that I should have destroyed him swiftly, but I had grown cautious, curiously afraid that I had become fallible in my judgment. After all, we had had an eternity stolen from us before we escaped. What gave me the right to steal indiscriminately such a brief existence from those humans who posed no threat at all?
This boy, though, had been a danger. His mind would have been used against us. Therefore he had to be destroyed.
As the grayish light infiltrates the classroom’s windows, I
shift my weight and take a breath, preparing my artifice of human behavior. In the months spent waiting for this human girl, I have used the nights to acclimate myself to this time and region. Of course, since rising from inertia, I have studied the current customs and behaviors and know them well enough, having sampled the thoughts and images of countless minds. There is no substitute, however, for walking among humans of a given epoch.
During the time waiting for this girl, I have purchased items that are plentiful to humanity—at least in this region. Foodstuffs, plastic containers of water—the substance they require for life that is second only to the air I taste now, though the air in this tiny classroom has grown acrid with the smell of old paints. My mind shifts to the growing collection of artifacts in the corner of the room: paintings, drawings, sketches. Perhaps I should destroy them before I take leave of this place, though surely no human eyes would recognize the images I have created with these rudimentary colors. How could they envisage a world they have never seen—one that they could never perceive with their eyes?
I have frequented other human establishments, waiting for any sign that the humans I encounter would recognize my otherness. They have not. In this new time, I also have been careful to test their perception of my physical age. Night after night, I have entered bars and pubs on the dark streets of the city. The servers and bartenders, to my disappointment, have remained unflinching at my age, and I have found myself speculating whether my appearance would earn me more suspicion than I could afford while waiting for this girl to emerge. Yet as soon as I entered one of the high schools in this suburban offshoot of Portland, Oregon, suspicion was the least of my concerns.
The females in this age have changed. They are bolder and more brazen than I last remember. Here at least. Other corners of this world have remained untouched by time and—for better or worse—progress. Whilst I had never regarded my own image as anything to marvel at, now I only need look into the eyes of a passing female, young or old, to gauge the impact of my appearance. In the past, I had considered the thoughts of males who happened to glimpse Audra disquieting, mostly because the male animal seemed more so prone to lust than his female counterpart.